


And I Know It's True (That Visions Are Seldom All They Seem)

by KitKat_Star



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amnesia, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi-Classed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Pre-Relationship, Rapunzel AU, Suicide mention, bit of a twist ending, hints of wol/exarch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitKat_Star/pseuds/KitKat_Star
Summary: Slight Rapunzel!AUHe’s always known the Tower and nothing but days of research and the man who tells him tales of the miserable outside world that took his memories. An adventurer arrives to change that.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch & Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	And I Know It's True (That Visions Are Seldom All They Seem)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first time posting to ao3 please let me know if there are any mistakes (formatting, grammar, emet-selch acting out of character, etc). I rewrote this so many times I’m just ughdlfkj take it
> 
> Major story spoilers for up to 5.0 and some concepts taken from 5.3

Like every day, he wakes in the Tower.

He wakes up, pushes the open book off his legs, and jumps out of bed. There’s a slight ache in his back he ignores. Though the only light comes from the next room, his internal clock says it’s morning and thus time to wake. He’s always been a morning person, has been for over a hu-

The thought leaves him as he notices the title of the book he knocked on the floor, face down upon a pile of tomes:  _ The Epic of Alexander _ . He’d rather not read on goblins and primals when he could be learning about more interesting topics, like Allag, so he bookmarks it and sets it on the stack of books on the nightstand.

He’s studied the Allagan Empire for as long as he can remember, which is not very long. He’s lived in the Tower for the same length of time. Though there’s no mirror, he can see his reflection (one red eye, one green) in the panes of the only window and the crystal wall. He used to entertain the thought of possessing the royal Allagan eye, a royal prince in a royal Tower, which would allow him to control relics and give him the power he lacks. This was before he was discouraged, of course, but - ah, his stomach growls.

The only other room is a kitchen. Like the bedroom, the furniture here is crystal, wood, and books; even the table is white oak embedded with crystal slivers, and he bumps into it as he walks by. The one large window spills early morning light in and illuminates the piles of books he needs to clean. It being dawn must be why he’s clumsy, his feet acting as though they’ve never walked this path to the cupboards before.

Breakfast is bread and butter. There’s much to do before  _ he  _ returns, and he can’t waste time on food. He can’t welcome his - guest? The word doesn’t sit right - to a messy Tower.

Despite this thought the morning is only half spent cleaning. At one point he picks up a book on the Crystal Tower he lives in and decides to reread it, and is so engrossed he almost misses a chilling noise from the other room.

He pokes his head out into the kitchen to see a gate of purple open. Emet-Selch sneers at bread crumbs on the table, wearing his usual black robes. He should be grateful the books are at least gone.

“Hello,” he greets, tomes bundled in his arms. “I apologize for the mess. I lost track of time, so it may-”

“Those books.”

“Yes?”

“They don’t seem to be about Alexander.”

Of course. He was supposed to study Alexander for him and the primal’s ability to harness time travel. How did he forget? Did he ever wake up? He adjusts the books so he can pinch himself. When nothing happens, Emet-Selch rolls his eyes.

“I give you one task and you still manage to fail? Did you lose your memories again? The primals are our utmost concern,  _ not _ the Allagan Empire,” he’s reminded. “Alexander is capable of time travel. As a powerful sorcerer, I must be kept up to date on all forms of magic. That’s why you’re here, is it not?”

Despite his words, the sorcerer seems to be in a good mood. He can’t recall ever having the conversation before - another product of his addled mind, he supposes - but the words feel repeated when he says, “About the Allagan Empire…”

“No, you cannot venture out to its ruins and no, you cannot leave the Tower. One who has only studied the outside world and has fallen to it before cannot hope to stand a chance against its savages.” Emet-Selch sighs. “You are here for your own safety. Pray do not make me regret saving you.”

He shudders. Emet-Selch is right. The land outside the Tower is filled with the worst of the worst according to the books the sorcerer brings him and the stories he tells. As he says, it’s best he remains in the Tower. His overconfidence is what nearly got him killed once before.

Still…

“Mayhap after I finish researching Alexander you could teach me some of your spellwork? So I could one day venture out with my own power?” he asks.

Silence. Hope flickers to life.

Then Emet-Selch curls his lip. “I could not teach you to cast even the tiniest flicker of flame,” he sneers. “Your capabilities are far below mine. For someone like _ you _ , who has already demonstrated his incompetence, to suggest you could learn a fraction of my power is absurd and ab-so-lute-ly impossible.”

His ears flatten. A book falls off the top of the stack he carries, and the sound of it hitting the floor nearly makes him drop the rest. “I-”

“Do not be cross,” he interrupts, softer. “I’m only honest. ‘Tis best you know now. Without me more than just your mind would be lost. Here, in the Tower’s wards it is safer, and besides there is ever more to research. Am I safe to assume you have yet to start on Omega?”

He shakes his head, quiet.

“Then there is much to do!” Emet-Selch snaps his fingers, and several books fall onto the table. “Reading these before I return next week shan’t be too difficult, shall it? Then get to it!”

A new portal opens behind him. Before he steps through he pauses.

“Oh, one more thing,” he says, voice slow and careful. His expression darkens. The light from the window seems to dim. “Don’t  _ ever _ ask to leave this Tower again.”

The circular bedroom is furnished in a blend of Allag and a style he recognizes but cannot place the name of. The floor is gold save for a blue circle in the center. The walls are, of course, crystal. There’s an applewood and crystal bookshelf, a white oak bed frame, a desk of the same material, a painting of purple trees. The painting’s scenery is familiar, but even with his lost memories he somehow knows it’s not a place that exists on this star.

He tears his gaze away from the painting bitterly. He can’t leave the Tower because it’s  _ too dangerous.  _ He can’t even visit other parts of the Tower or the ruins protected by Emet-Selch’s wards. The lone window is too low to get a proper view of his surroundings - only crystal is visible - and too high to jump from without breaking his spine.

“This is impossible,” he decides after an afternoon of slogging through  _ The Epic of Alexander _ .  _ Impossible _ is a word Emet-Selch uses more than he, but here it fits. No matter how hard he studies he will never regain his memories.

And he’ll never leave, will he? Emet-Selch will never teach him magic or deem him strong enough to leave. This isn’t right. This life isn’t right. If only there was someone willing to help him, but everyone outside of the Tower is the very reason he’s here -

A  _ clink _ scatters his thoughts. That didn’t sound like Emet-Selch, but it couldn’t be anyone else. He slinks around the corner slowly, unwilling to face him but knowing it was impossible to avoid confrontation - and enters an empty kitchen.

Another clink. He sticks his head out of the window, opened earlier for the breeze, with the expectation of seeing a dead bird. Instead, he finds a stranger holding a bow. They release another arrow just as he notices them. It sails through the window and misses him by an ilm, burrowing itself in the oak table with terrifying force.

An attacker!

“Fight me!” they shout. “I challenge you, Emet-Selch!”

He gulps. “M-my apologies! You have the wrong Tower!”

The stranger falters. “Is this not Syrcus Tower?”

“I - I don’t believe so?” 

For as long as he remembers he’s always been a terrible liar, yet somehow they seem to believe him. Below, the stranger drops their bow in favor of digging through their bag. It takes a comically long amount of time to find and roll out a map on the ground. “This is Mor Dhona,” they say, “and Syrcus Tower is the only tower in the region… aha! Trickery. As expected from a villain such as you.”

“I am not a villain,” he retorts. “Furthermore, I am not the man you seek. Who are you to intrude and demand a battle?”

They stand to their full height. “I am the Warrior of Light,” they announce. He tilts his head to the side. “Er, Defender of Eorzea? The Last Resort? Builder of the Realm and Finder of False Gods? Syph-Friend?”

“Am I supposed to recognize those names?”

Their jaw drops. “And who are you to not recognize me while living in the den of the biggest menace to Eorzea?”

“Though I may not possess a grand assortment of frivolous titles, I assure you I am not Emet-Selch. You can call me -” He pauses.

“I can call you…?”

Oh dear. He hasn’t spent even a second since losing his memories trying to think of a new name for himself, and Emet-Selch only found him after he was unconscious and bereft of memories. “You can call me whatever name you’d like,” he stammers. “But as the one you wish to fight is not presently here, I advise you take your search elsewhere.”

Too late, he realizes his mistake. The Warrior of Light narrows their eyes. “So he _ was  _ here.”

They bring out a small stone and a polearm that somehow fits into that small backpack. With a flash of light they reappear in an outfit much spikier than before, and they  _ leap _ . He rushes to shut the window before they enter. As he pushes, they kick their way in, and they roll onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. It’s a miracle he lands on top. He scurries off and to the other side of the table.

“Stay back!” he warns, looking for a weapon - but all that’s close are the books he has yet to read. The Warrior stands only to receive a face full of  _ Aether’s Effect on Time _ while he readies himself with two more books.

“Ow! Why do you have so many thick -  _ ouch _ ! Stop!” they exclaim, dropping their polearm to shield their face.

“Not until you leave,” he huffs. They dodge the next thrown book. “Emet-Selch is not here.”

“But he was here! You, as his minion, should know where he is.”

“I’m  _ not _ his minion. He’s my - “ Savior? Captor? “-I research for him.”

“You’re complit in his crimes, then.”

_ That  _ slows his assault. “Crimes? What crimes?”

“‘What crimes’?” they splutter. “How about the creation of Black Rose and Flood of Light? How can you work for a man capable of such evil?”

“I’ve heard nothing of which you speak,” he argues. “In fact, I have good reason to believe you lie. Eorzea is full of the deceitful and wicked, and Emet-Selch works to save the region from the worst.”

“Save?” The Warrior rips off a gauntlet. On their bare arm is a long, deep scar continuing past their elbow and back into their armor. It looks recent, yet it’s stark white. “Does this look like the work of a man trying to save Eorzea? Another of his minions did this to me.”

He doesn’t know of a weapon that leaves a scar like that. “It looks like the result of attempting to stop the only good man left,” he retorts. “Mayhap you’re the true villain.”

They look at him incredulously. “You believe in his philosophy? You wish to harm the innocent as he has for a misguided agenda?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why help him?”

“I assist Emet-Selch because he saved me when I was weak,” he says. “Because it’s what I can do as a scholar and historian. I do not possess the strength to help people. I research so he can.”

“You fight for the wrong side.” They sigh and cross their arms, deliberating. “If you’re so ignorant of his actions, there must be a way to convince you.”

He crosses his arms. “There isn't. If you believe him to be evil, why argue with me? Why not cut me down?”

“I’m the Warrior of Light,” they say. “I want to save everyone. I don’t know how much time I have on this star, so I want to do as much good as I can.”

It’s so simple he can’t help but want to believe them. They could have killed him on the spot. Instead, they reason with him. Besides, there’s something about them that makes him want to trust  _ them _ and yet - that’s his naivety. It’s surely the reason he lost his memories in the first place. He’s been told not to trust those from the outside world; even his books are vetted and chosen from trusted sources.

“I’m leaving and coming back with proof,” they suddenly announce, looking around. “Where’s the exit?”

He gestures to the window. They look as though they expect it to turn into a door. When it doesn’t they turn back.

“How do you leave?”

“I don’t.”

“You just stay here? Forever?”

“As I said,” he says, arms crossed even tighter, “I do not possess the strength.”

“That makes no sense. You should have cause to leave whenever you like. Are you fine staying here?”

He’s silent.

“Everyone has the strength to walk on their own two feet. Metaphorically. Everyone has the strength to do what they want is what I mean, two working feet or one or none, and if they don’t there should be someone willing to assist them until they’re strong enough on their own. That’s why I’m here. That’s what he should be for you. To limit and trap you here is  _ wrong _ .”

“He was,” he snaps. “He was there for me. When I was attacked and left to die for my weakness, he saved me and brought me here to recuperate. I lost my memories and abilities due to them, and he’s brought me books back to help regain the knowledge I’ve lost.”

“What weakness?” they ask. They eye his arms. “You look fine to me. Wait, did you say memories?”

“I have no memories of my previous life. I would have lost my entire life if not for him.”

“Are you-” They shake their head, conceding. “Fine. Memories aside, abilities? Like magic or fighting? You look able to do both. You threw those books pretty hard.”

“If a sorcerer as powerful as Emet-Selch cannot see the required aether for magic, what strength do I have?”

“You do, though. I’ll show you.”

They take out a white stone and change this time into an outfit of white, not a trace of spiky armor to be seen. “How did you do that?”

“Trade secret,” they say, whipping out a stick of all things. “Let me show you a basic healing spell: cure.”

He tenses, but can’t stop them from waving the stick. Healing magic washes over him, soothing if not ineffective.

“And esuna.” This time, a wisp of light twirls around him. “Nothing is wrong with your aether,” they say. “If you were afflicted or cursed the spells wouldn’t work right. You’re as normal as everyone else, if not missing some memories.”

And they look ready to ask about that again, too, but they can’t bring themselves to ask. He looks down at his right hand as if to see some manner of affliction. It’s as it’s always been. Normal.

“I really must be off,” the Warrior says. “Don’t throw books at me next time - or tell Emet-Selch I was here!”

What a silly request. Of course he has to tell him an intruder slipped the wards. When he asks how they did it, they speak of disabling the gates leading to the Tower. They’d re-enable them so Emet-Selch wouldn’t find out.

He nods. “And Black Rose and Flood of Light are?”

Their mouth twists. “You really don’t know?”

“I’ve never left the Tower.”

They shake their head as they pick up their polearm and return to the spiky armor. They don’t respond until they’re climbing halfway out the window. “Do you want to leave?”

_ “Don’t ever ask to leave the Tower again.” _

“I have a life here,” he answers. “I’m safe in the Tower.”

“No one is safe with Emet-Selch around,” they warn. “Think of a name to call you by when I return in, say, three days?”

Four days before Emet-Selch. There’s not much he can say to dissuade them, so he’s silent as they hop out. They stick the landing perfectly, change into yet another outfit - this one consisting of dark clothing and knives - and disappear in a puff of smoke.

He closes the window when they don’t reappear, thinking of the many revelations they’ve spoken. A stranger came here and wasn’t a savage and didn’t kill him. That Emet-Selch could be wrong about that opens up the possibility he’s lied about more… but it’s much too soon to say. The Warrior could be lying to earn his trust so they can kill Emet-Selch.

But for the two names they mentioned, Black Rose and Flood of Light… he can’t help but notice the Warrior didn’t give him an answer, yet they don’t seem to want to hide it. They seem to be common knowledge, whatever they are, but no book he has speaks of them.

Does the Warrior lie? Or is Emet-Selch hiding it from him?

He cannot draw conclusions. Not without proof, and certainly not from a mere acquaintance. But if they’re telling the truth and he’s helped a villain all along…

Back to research. Not the research on Alexander, no. His goal now is to find more of this Warrior of Light.

...An admirable goal, but three days later he comes to the conclusion he won’t achieve it. He has  _ nothing _ on this Warrior, but not because they lie. Every book here predates them - and Emet-Selch, apparently, as for the first time he realizes there’s nothing on him too. There’s a seed of doubt telling him it’s another strike against Emet-Selch, but he refuses to let it grow. A good scholar would not let bias steer them wrong.

Today is when the Warrior said they would return, and the morning crawls by as he waits. He burns with curiosity to know if what they say is true… and to see if they’ll come at all.

_ Clink _ goes the arrow against the window. He’s already in the kitchen, and opens the window moments after. Below, the Warrior already holds their polearm, and they leap up once they see him. He shuts the window behind them and looks for any sign of the evidence they said they’d bring.

“No book throwing today,” they observe. They return the blue stone to their bag and sit at the table in a casual outfit. “Learn anything in those books of yours? Mayhap the truth of your patron?”

“My job here is to study primals, not heroes,” he says. He isn’t going to just come out and admit he spent all three days trying to learn what he can about them.

“So you still think the same.”

“Convince me.”

They reach into their backpack and pull out the polearm, the bow, even an axe, and various knick knacks that should not fit in such a small space. Finally, they set three books on the table before beginning the task of returning everything else to their inventory. He looks over the titles. The first is a comprehensive recent history of Eorzea while the second is the Warrior of Light’s biography. The third is titled  _ The Ascian Menace. _

“What’s an Ascian?”

Their head whips up so fast he nearly falls out of his chair. “You  _ work  _ for an Ascian.”

“What?”

They point to the book, glaring. He opens it, confused, and begins to read.

The text begins vaguely. The Ascians are a mostly unknown threat who hide in the dark.  _ Without shadows, _ the author writes,  _ as they never step into the sun.  _ He lifts an eyebrow. Emet-Selch hardly shies from the window.

Ascians have existed for years upon years, the book states, likely existing longer than man. They seek to sow discord and chaos, and are near impossible to kill. They have untold power described eerily similar to Emet-Selch’s.

Then he reads about their three leaders.

Elidibus, who preaches balance while tipping the aetheric scales to dark. Lahabrea, last seen working with the Garlean Empire before his “demise” at the Warrior of Light’s hands (here it’s noted he’s likely recuperating).

“When they say a Warrior of Light killed Lahabrea, do they mean you?”

The Warrior, who wrangled everything back into their bag and now ransacks his cupboards, turns. “I did. He possessed my friend and assisted the Empire in subjugating Eorezea, so I killed him. In a sense. He’s still alive.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t use white auracite. A special kind of auracite can kill Ascians - pure auracite, nothing tempered, so it can catch and dissolve their aether with enough force. We learned this only after the book’s publication… oh, a month ago? The book was published three months ago, and Lahabrea defeated five before.”

He wants to ask more, but the look on their face combined with the words  _ “he possessed my friend”  _ prevents him, and he returns to the book to read about their last leader. The sketch beside the passage is of a familiar man in black robes.

Emet-Selch, thought to pull the strings of the Empire from within the royal palace. A man - or monster - who once hid in the shadows, but recent events put him in the spotlight. He’s believed to be behind the Allagan Empire’s creation, which he scoffs at. No one lives  _ that _ long.

“It’s true, whatever you read,” the Warrior says.

“How can I trust it? Or you?” he asks. “I learned of your existence only days ago. How do I know any of this isn’t fictitious?”

“Because Emet-Selch never told you he was an Ascan or let you leave. Because you have no way to regain your lost memories cooped up here. I’m offering you all that. You must have friends or family from your old life. Do you even know how old you are?”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything about himself, other than his looks and current hobbies. From the Warrior’s expression, it’s not the answer they want to hear but the one they expect.

“From what little you’ve told me, I asked around in Mor Dhona if any redhead miqo’tes went missing in the area sometime in the last five years,” they say. “I haven’t heard word from anyone, but it’s only been a few days.”

“Five years? Why that time frame?” How long has he been here in this Tower? Why hasn’t he bothered to keep track? Why hasn’t Emet-Selch told him?

They sit down. “This Tower’s only been unearthed for five years, since the Calamity.”

“That - that cannot be possible.”

He doesn’t know why it sounds so untrue. It’s entirely plausible. He knows Syrcus Tower went underground with the fall of the Empire due to his books, and though none state its reemergence he assumed it happened some time ago. Still, it feels as though he’s lived in the Tower for  _ centuries _ no matter how blatantly untrue it must be - and then his mind snags on the word  _ Calamity. _ He doesn’t know of any recent Calamities.

“How many Calamities have there been?” he asks weakly.

_ Eight _ , his mind supplies.

“Seven,” they say. “Another thing Emet-Selch’s hiding from you. Why would he hide the number of Calamities, of all things?”

A result of hiding all recent events, he realizes, even if it wasn’t the intended one. In his investigations over the last few days he found none of his books were new. They were all decades old at the youngest, some with yellowed and crinkled pages.

He can’t believe them, but he can’t question it, either. It’s a paradox he struggles with, knowing he has to make up his mind, but if the Warrior is right then Emet-Selch is wrong and - 

He thinks he knew all along his situation wasn’t right, that there were facts kept from him, but he’d assumed it was for his own safety. Confronted with the truth now, he’s left to wonder whose safety is being kept.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “I need to know,” he says, grabbing the book. He has to find out. He has to know why Emet-Selch really rescued him and why he’s trapped here, because he’s nothing special; he can’t even perform magic and yet  _ he’s _ stuck in this Tower, not anyone else.

“That’s not a good idea. You don’t look well.”

“It doesn’t matter. I need to know,” he repeats. He decides to ignore them, hoping they’ll leave if he does.

They don’t. They sit with him through an hour of silence. The only movement in the room is the turning of pages as he reads about how he’s supported a villain.

There’s an entire chapter dedicated to Emet-Selch. The first half is speculation from old notes written by those long deceased, but the second half is more concrete. It begins with his emergence from shadows: the devastating attacks on hyur villages and miqo’te tribes to the north, gaining the name the Illsbard Attacker. Over the course of several years he razed entire cities in some unknown quest, but it ended abruptly with the destruction of an island, leaving one survivor.

“Why.” He looks up. “Why did he do that? Why did he stop?”

“I can only assume he found what he was looking for,” the Warrior says. “I have not met the survivor myself, but my comrades have. She never saw the attack - she was meeting with her grandfather in his office one moment, and the next… everyone was dead. Everything was gone. Everyone and everything but her.”

“That’s…”

“She lost her grandfather, her home and school, her best friend. She only kept her journal because she held it at the time.  _ That _ is what Ascians are capable of.”

He remembers Black Rose and Flood of Light. This book hasn’t mentioned either yet, but he knows it will before he turns the last page.

“Read a happier book,” they say, seemingly regretting their harsh words. They reach forward to take the book from his hands. This time, he lets them. “You must have a lighter book in your collection.”

He thinks back to the mess of books - all old, possibly all lies. “Not really.”

“Then read this.”

The Warrior pushes their biography across the table. They laugh when he says, “that seems rather self centered.”

“It’s happier,” they say. “The author’s a fan of mine.”

He opens to the first chapter which details their childhood. He’s delighted to see a scribble of a drawing on the first page. “Did you draw this?”

“Absolutely not,” they say. He grins.

“You did.”

“Nope. I don’t know how to draw.”

“The caption attributes this art to you.”

The Warrior continues to deny it until they agree to disagree. He’s disappointed the book never says their name out of respect for their privacy (while simultaneously cataloguing their every movement). It’s still a fascinating read.

He learns of their adventures and friends. He reads of their coming to a city-state and becoming mixed up in their troubles, how they joined the Scions, how they met and lost comrades alike. For every story the book tells of a friend’s guffaw with a lady or another’s ambition to make the world safer, the Warrior has a hundred more. He sets down the book as they tell him about the sweltering heat where until recently they called their base. He’s read about Eorea’s climate before, but to hear it from the Warrior’s lips… he can feel the sand on his skin as they speak. It’s humanizing. It’s  _ wonderful _ .

“Do you believe me now?” they ask. 

He thinks he does.

They eventually leave with the promise of visiting again and continuing the search for his family. When he asks why they aren’t off saving the world, they smile and say they are.

He thinks back to his first memory, in which he awakes in a Tower.

His eyes shoot open to see a crystal ceiling, a pounding in his head and a crick in his back. He doesn’t know where he is or when he is (why would he need to? his mind asks, but he forgets soon after) or even  _ who _ he is.

There’s a man standing by who introduces himself as Emet-Selch, sorcerer extraordinaire. He resides in Syrcus Tower to learn what he can about magic so that he might save the world.

“Syrcus Tower,” he says, trying out the syllables. He knows that name. “Where is that?”

Emet-Selch sighs. “The hard way, then,” he mutters, but when asked what he means he just shakes his head.

He gives him a quick overview of Eorzea’s history. It sounds like a terrible world. Men killing men. An Empire conquering all in its path. Monstrous gods summoned only to temper and kill their followers. He was found half dead on the side of the road, beaten by one of those forces, and Emet-Selch was convinced to rescue him by the books in his bag labeling him a historian. Someone worth saving.

“I would save them from their own folly,” Emet-Selch concludes. “Alas, I have little time to research new magic.”

“I can help,” he says in his gratitude for the one who saved him. “If I was a historian…”

“Then you might possess the brain power to assist me? Very well. As for your memories, I must inform you there is no magic to ever restore them. Only time may.”

“That’s alright,” he says. If the world is so terrible, he doesn’t want to remember it.

He does ask for a hand mirror so he can see what he looks like. It’s strange, not knowing one's own appearance. Emet-Selch admits he doesn’t own one, but describes his looks with the air of one who is overqualified for the job.

He’s a miqo’te, he’s told, and he can feel his ears and tail and knows it to be true. He’s rather short. There are strange tattoos Emet-Selch claims he doesn’t know the meaning of. Maybe they only meant something to his past self.

“And your eyes,” the sorcerer says, slowly. “One green, one red.”

Then he smiles like he’s told a joke. If he did, it’s not one he understands.

The days leading up to Emet-Selch’s next visit are spent in good spirits. He reads the Warrior’s biography, then the history of Eorzea and rereads the biography again.  _ The Ascian Menace _ explains that Black Rose is a deadly gas, killing without mercy or care for innocents. It’s ghastly. The mystery of Flood of Light, however, remains for another day. He does do  _ some _ research on Alexander, but if his report is centered around goblins, well, Emet-Selch knows his mind wanders.

The morning of, he hides the Warrior’s books under a pile of tomes. It’s been there for months and Emet-Selch has given up on telling him to organize it. By mid morning, the tenseness has returned. When he enters the kitchen to the sound of the void the Ascian has already dumped several books and notes on the table. Purple tendrils slowly eat itself to close the portal behind him.

“Where do your portals go?” he asks.

“Oh, here, there, everywhere,” Emet-Selch says, waving a hand. “I visited Garlemald to see what information they have on primals, as they hunt them regularly. Unfortunately in their quest to  _ kill _ primals they don’t spend much time learning about them.”

He says this like it’s his fault. It is, isn’t it? The book said he controlled the Empire. Then he realizes Emet-Selch didn’t fully answer his question, and he’s left to wonder how many other half truths he’s been told.

“I’ve continued my research into Alexander,” he says. “If you were hoping to utilize its time travel ability for yourself, I’ll have you know it isn’t possible. Even the goblins have not figured it out and they’ve lived within Alexander for years.”

“Those are  _ goblins _ ,” Emet-Selch snaps. “Their mere existence is lesser than mine. Of course they haven’t.”

“Ours.”

“Pardon?”

“You said their existence is less than yours. Are we not the same species?”

“You may have forgotten again, but your ears are quite different than mine,” Emet-Selch says dryly. “Also, you have a tail.”

Said tail lashes. “But we are all spoken.”

“All men are. Not primals. Speaking of, there is another creature I’d like you to look into, one not quite a primal but not spoken, either. I believe I’ve mentioned Omega before. You can study both it and Alexander; you don’t exactly have any other pressing matters. Besides, there is space to contend with even if I do succeed.”

This is the first he’s been as forthcoming with his plans. “Why do you need both?”

Emet-Selch’s expression changes. It isn’t one he’s seen on him before. No, he saw this on the Warrior when they spoke of lost friends. “What if you could undo every action you’ve taken? If you could prevent the fall of civilizations or the deaths of millions? If you could bring back those you lost with a snap? That is the power of time and space. That is what will allow me to change the world.”

A week ago, he would have believed him.

“Are you trying to undo the Calamities?” That can’t be right. The books said the Ascians caused the Calamities.

“There are some events which cannot be undone,” Emet-Selch says. “This depends on one’s power, of course. Someone like _ you _ could hardly change the time you wake up.”

He tempers the rebellious flare and forces himself to ask lightly, “are you saying you can stop them or not?”

“Yes,” Emet-Selch says. “If it was necessary, I would undo it all.”

Why is that answer so chilling?

“We’ll combine your work on Omega and Alexander together,” Emet-Selch continues, and motions for him to hand over his report. He scans it. “Afterwards, I will have a new task for you. I just need to prep-  _ goblins? Why is your entire report about goblins?” _

“I was unaware of your opinions of goblins until now,” he says. “I find their society fascinating.”

“You find Allagan scripture fascinating,” Emet-Selch growls. “Well, move your attention to Omega. I will be back in a week as customary.”

It’s a quick visit, normal. But as Emet-Selch’s gaze travels over the table and stops right where the Warrior’s arrow hit it days before, he has to stop his fur from fluffing. He’d had the Warrior take the broken shaft with them and covered the mark as best he could, but with the way Emet-Selch stares he’d think the arrow was still there.

“Is aught amiss?”

“I believe so,” Emet-Selch says. “There are forces which seek to disrupt my work. See to it that you do not fall for their lies… in those texts you read, of course.”

He has the Warrior look over his report on Omega, written in a way to give Emet-Selch only a clue to its power rather than the answer.

“Wow,” the Warrior says when they finish. “It’s… informative.”

“Is it too much?”

“No, it’s perfect. I didn’t know how much work went into these. You sure know a lot.”

His chest warms. “Emet-Selch said he will have a different task for me next week, but I don’t know what it entails.”

“That’s worrying.” They hesitate. “You could… leave. Now. With me.”

“Leave? I can’t just leave.”

“What’s stopping you? I could carry you out as a dragoon, right now, and introduce you to my friends and start you on your new life.”

“I can’t,” he says, frustrated. “I wouldn’t survive out there.” He’s already nearly died out there once.

“You would,” they insist. “Everyone starts somewhere. You read my biography; you know I wasn’t born powerful.” They grab his hands. He startles at the contact, but all they do is close their eyes. 

“What are you -” He gasps as he feels a pulse of aether.

“I asked a friend who specializes in aetherology how to determine one’s capabilities,” they say triumphantly. He’s memorized enough of their biography to know who they mean. “She recommended I attempt to attune as I would to an aetheryte - well, that’s how it was explained for my ‘uneducated ears.’ Now do what I just did back.”

“Why?”

“You can channel aether, but we don’t know how much unless you copy me.” They explain the process. It’s not difficult to catch on. He closes his eyes as they did, breathes in and out, and -

The Warrior gasps as he did, this time in wonder. Their smile widens. “You have almost as much aether as my friend. You’re untrained, so your magic stores are limited, but you have nearly as much potential as  _ me _ .”

“That can’t be right,” he says reflexively. “Why did I not learn magic before, then?”

“You probably never had the right teacher. Here, I’ll prove it.” They untangle their hands slowly. “I’ll teach you a fire spell.”

He knows the theoretical basics, having read on it. He’s not prepared for how much they know in the more practical aspect.

They push the kitchen table and chairs against the counter. The Warrior wears black robes and a poofy hat that obscure their eyes, though they claim seeing less gives them greater power.

First they teach him how to put  _ out  _ a spell. “Even if you cast fire you wouldn’t know what to do with it,” they say. It’s reasonable, even more so when they tell him how to put out someone  _ else’s _ spell. It’s handy in the event he’s ever attacked by a mage.

(He doesn’t allow himself the hope of that ever happening, as that requires him to leave the Tower.)

Next is the fire spell. He attempts to copy them, but by sunset he’s failed to produce even a spark. He grows frustrated with every failed attempt, and he sees the Warrior feels the same.

They sigh and back up. They must be giving up, he realizes, now knowing how futile it is to teach them. They won’t bring up leaving the Tower again - they’ll leave and never return -

“Let’s try a different method,” they suggest, and rush him.

He’s so surprised he only watches for a moment. Then they channel ice - completely unfair, they never taught him  _ that _ \- spurring him to action. He grabs their wrist to prevent the spell from connecting and concentrating, and is just as startled as they are when a small flame flickers around their wrist.

“You did it!” the Warrior exclaims as he releases his grip. “You can do it! I told you - oh, seven hells.”

In their excitement neither sees flames catch around the sleeve of their robe. Within seconds their entire limb is ablaze, and their shouts turn to yelps of pain. He curses. Enough ice will smother fire, but he doesn’t know how to cast ice - yet if he stands still the Warrior will be injured.

He mimics what they did earlier and somehow ,small snowflakes drop from his hand. It’s not enough to make a difference, but the Warrior’s own blizzard spell is, and just as quickly as it grows the fire snuffs out.

“I’m so sorry, he whispers as they hiss. Their sleeve is ashes on the ground and their arm littered with burn marks. Their entire arm, that is, except the long white scar traveling from hand to shoulder. It looks larger than before. Why hasn’t it healed?

“It’s fine. Now we know you work better under pressure.” 

They try to reach into their bag with their uninjured hand, but they have the usual difficulty of being unable to find what they’re looking for. He kneels beside them and easily pulls out the correct stone, which they accept, but their face contorts in pain when the white garb of their healing clothes brush their burnt arm. He rolls up the sleeve. It’s even worse up close.

“I have bandages,” he offers.

“It’s fine,” they repeat. It isn’t, but their smile returns. “I told you it was possible.”

“And I’m grateful for your belief in me,” he says, wondering if he can create ice big enough to soothe their burns.

“I’ll teach you a cure spell. Here, place your hands here.”

“Could you not just heal yourself?”

They shake their head, then grimace as it jostles their shoulder. “This is hands on experience.”

He only feels more terrible. That - or the Warrior’s assumption of him working under pressure - must be the key to conjury, as the lesson comes easier than casting fire and ice. The burns turn pink instead of blistering red, and they finish with a spell of their own when he flags. They say the more he uses magic the stronger he’ll grow. It’s still a shock to believe.

“What of that scar?” he asks. In his tired state he nearly runs a hand along it, but retracts at the last moment. He can’t imagine how painful it was to receive it.

“It won’t go away,” they say. “Don’t worry yourself over it.”

“But-”

“Don’t.”

He drops it.

“I’ll return with a linkpearl next time,” they say. “It would be good to keep in touch when I can’t come here; I’ve been asked to travel to Camp Dragonhead soon, and won’t return for a few weeks. ...Or will you leave the Tower with me?”

He catches himself considering it. “Let me practice my magic, my friend,” he says. “I’ll give you my answer then.”

“Alright. Wait just a moment. I have some reading for you.”

It takes a full minute for them to find and hand him a journal. It’s unpublished; the binding is incomplete and the cover burnt, and the title is written in neat handwriting:  _ Krile Vol. 5. _

“What is this?”

“Don’t read if you don’t feel up to it,” they warn. “I’d rather you work on your magic, truth be told, but you have a right to know.”

He agrees even if he doesn’t understand. When they leave, a thoughtful expression on their face, he fixes the tables and chairs, takes the journal to his room, and opens it to the first page.

He does not sleep that night.

The first entry is simple. Krile writes of a new school year at the Isle of Vale, where she both studies and teaches underclassmen. She talks of how her favorite pair of students have departed from Eorzea, her favorite and less favorite professors, and the new assignment her grandfather tasked her and her best friend to do.

_ “Raha,”  _ he reads out loud,  _ “and I will be spending much of our time researching Flood of Light this year. All we presently know is how it is the Garlean’s newest weapon and is worse than Black Rose. Raha acts excited, but the Echo tells me he’s just as apprehensive as I am.” _

The next entry of note is dated a month later, in which a colleague is expelled. He raved about an attacker who destroyed settlements on a whim, Krile wrote, and saw a pattern in the attacks when there were none. He interrupted too many lectures and turned in no research, and so he was expelled. Raha is mentioned again, her friend deciding to investigate the colleague’s claims when he wasn’t busy with Flood of Light.

_ “There is no connection to the Allagan Empire. It is simply the work of a man without morals. Unfortunately, being the Allagan scholar he is, Raha has decided to prove him wrong. I believe he’s interested both because of his own research and the fate of his own tribe… ah, but I shan’t say anymore after he swiped my fourth journal. I promise you, Raha, I consider you my dearest friend! But stop snooping and get some rest!” _

A thought occurs to him. He dismisses it. It’s too fantastical to be true.

He reads about her wishes to spend time out in the summer sun before fall, an argument with an ‘Ejika,’ and Raha spending more and more time looking into the expelled colleague’s insane theory. Despite the wounds left by Flood of Light, Krile wrote that she doesn’t believe it is  _ “a beast or weapon in the conventional sense.” _

Then, towards the end of summer, more troubles arise.

He traces the words with a finger as he reads,  _ “I was asked to lead two men today on a tour. They were dressed in the strangest robes. I sensed true malice and an otherworldly aether, nothing I have sensed before.” _

Then, the next entry, she fought with Raha over his obsession with Allag.  _ “He looks as though I could beat him in a fight.”  _ And even more worrying:  _ “He said our colleague was correct. There is a pattern. What’s more, he’s confident he can predict the next attack… and the attacker is related to the two whom I gave a tour around the Isle… I cannot believe it.” _

He flips a few pages ahead. The two men returned, and despite Krile’s warnings her grandfather allowed them to sit in on her lecture on white magic. Raha was also in attendance, as he missed too many of his usual classes due to his new obsession with the “Illsbard Attacker.” The men didn’t cause trouble during the lecture, but her friend...

_ “Raha did the most stupid thing after: he held a conversation with them! He knows my suspicions - and yet he walked right up! He said later they spoke of his Allagan eye…”  _

The next passage is dated to the first date of fall. He grows stone cold as he reads the entry, only two sentences long.

_ “Raha’s prediction was right. We’ve alerted Grandfather and the expelled colleague.” _

Then the next.

_ “Flood of Light kills slowly but leaves no survivors,”  _ he whispers.  _ “I’ve sent a copy of my notes to the Archons… I would never forgive myself if I did not warn Minfilia in time. Raha has been taken off Flood of Light research and instead focuses his efforts on predicting where the attacker will strike next.” _

Instead of days wishing for warmer weather or bemoaning exams, the following entries are all about their discoveries on the weapon they research. The journal is written less and less in, and what little is written is nothing good. Eijika leaves the Isle to look at an afflicted victim. Raha grows bags underneath his eyes as he theorizes the attacker destroys settlements to cover his tracks when he doesn’t find what he searches for. The Archons assist with research into Flood of Light.

Fall bleeds into winter. Flood of Light is a poison the Empire imbues in their weapons and strongest champions,  _ “sapping aether until its victim is a husk. It feeds on light aether… the more aether one has, the longer they live. Minfiia asked that any discoveries in prolonging the patient’s life be forwarded to her immediately. I… I think she knows someone afflicted.”  _ He grips the journal tightly.  _ “I don’t know what to tell her.” _

The final entry is not dated. The writing below it is hurried, the words bleeding together. Finally, he’s able to parse out its meaning.

_ “Raha says the next target is us,”  _ he reads, and realizes this is it.  _ “I’m furiously writing in the event something happens as I run to meet with Grandfather. We must evacuate. There’s no t-  _ ah.”

It ends there.

He does not wake in the Tower for he does not sleep.

He lays in bed for several hours, journal next to his body. He knows it must be past dawn, and he tries not to focus on the twinge of a lump mattress prodding his back.

What did the Warrior mean by him having a right to know? He thinks and thinks and thinks over it, unwilling to accept the only answer he comes up with. He doesn’t reread the journal. He has to remind himself Krile is alive, even if everyone else she mentioned is dead.

He doesn’t know why he feels the loss so keenly.

He also doesn’t hear the sound of the portal.

When Emet-Selch enters the room with a judging sweep of his eyes, he sits up ramrod straight. “W-why are you here?!” he squawks, gaze darting to the journal on the bed.

“Is this what you do when I’m not here? Sleep until noon like a sloth?” Emet-Selch grouses. “I’ve finished my own research. Don’t give me that look, I do more than pillage libraries. I’ll remain here while I make preparations, but I will be in a different part of the Tower.”

The look on his face must grow hopeful, because Emet-Selch shakes his head before he can ask to visit other parts of the Tower.

“Later,” Emet-Selch says, and he stops dead.  _ Later?  _ Even only other parts of the Tower are ten times more than he’s offered before. “The time for research is over. I will go over your information, I assure you, but for now there are more important matters at hand.”

He doesn’t know what preparations means or what Emet-Selch is planning, but from what he’s heard from the Warrior and now Krile’s journal, he knows Emet-Selch can’t have even a hint of information on Omega. It’s too dangerous. That’s why, as he slowly shifts the blankets around on the bed to hide the journal, he lies.

“Er, about that,” he says, “last night I was reading my notes on Omega by the open window and… well… it was quite windy.”

Emet-Selch squints at him. “That is the most buffoonery thing you’ve done yet. How could you mess up the only task I’ve given you? Do you at least recall what you’re written?”

He shrugs. Emet-Selch gives a long suffering sigh.

“You can spend the day rewriting your notes,” he decides. “It will take me at least a day to prepare, and then I will take you on your grand adventure to another floor of the Tower.”

“Prepare for what?”

“You’ll see. The key to this world’s salvation is soon at hand.”

As Emet-Selch speaks, he smirks. In return he musters up a feeble grin. “That is indeed good news,” he says, and grabs his right hand to stop it from shaking.

He doesn’t know how he makes it through the conversation, but he’s soon alone. He straightens his shoulders.

He has to warn the Warrior of Emet-Selch’s plans - no, he has to warn them not to come. Ever. Because they’ll be here any day and Emet-Selch will surely sense them and it will all be over.

But he can’t leave to warn them. Fire and cure spells aren’t enough to save him from such a long fall. The Warrior hasn’t brought him the linkpearl yet.

“Think,” he mutters. “Think.”

He recalls their words on walking on their own two feet, of being strong enough. He can’t agree. They helped him every step of the way - told him the truth, taught him the beginnings of magic - never realizing he couldn’t take those next steps on his own.

He holds up his hand. A small flame burns in his palm, warm and reassuring. He snuffs it out to start on his report, but he can’t help but think about practicing when Emet-Selch is out of sight…

Emet-Selch bursts in. “What was that?” he demands, shoulders heaving. “What did you do?”

“Huh?” He looks at the books in his arms. “I’m… organizing the shelves?”

“I thought you were rewriting your notes on Omega.”

“Er, yes, after I organize these books on the topic,” he says, and hopes at least one book has Omega in title. “I don’t want to write half a paper before realizing I forgot important information.”

“Then get to it,” Emet-Selch snaps, and disappears in another portal.

He deflates. He wishes he could talk to the Warrior. But Emet-Selch’s frenzy must be because of the fire spell. If he practices magic or attempts to contact the Warrior again, he will know.

He also cannot quell the small flicker of hope, refusing to be quenched by ice cold reality.

He writes nonsense about Omega while watching for the Warrior by the window. He has no idea how to warn them before it’s too late, but hope springs eternal.

At sunset, they come.

He’s been nodding off the entire afternoon, a consequence of not sleeping the night before. It’s not his eyes which spot them but his ears, straightening at the familiar  _ clink.  _ Instead of the usual excitement, he feels only fear. He opens the window and waves his hand away.

“I’m not leaving,” the Warrior says, already equipped in their dragoon gear. “I know you read the journal.”

“Now is not a good time,” he says. “Pray do not re-”

The sound of a portal. A cold feeler coiling around his ankle. He steps back to remain on his feet as he’s jerked back until he hits the table. The barrel of a gun touches his back. He doesn’t know why the mere touch sends him reeling from pain.

“You will give them a plausible excuse,” a voice murmurs. “Tell them to return tomorrow at the same time, or I will kill them faster than you can say  _ Tower.” _

He nods. With the pain of steel at his back and the tendril from the portal around his ankle, he marches back to the window. Below, the Warrior fidgets with the gauntlet covering their scar.

“Can you return tomorrow?” he calls out, trying not to gasp from the pain. Why does it never cease? “I have little free time today.”

The Warrior puts a hand on their hip. “Don’t tell me the guy you work for is here.”

He wants to laugh at their casual tone. He might also cry. “No.”

“Fine, I’ll be back tomorrow. You better be free then!”

It takes two tense minutes for them to find their ninja job stone. Then they’re gone.

“Close the window.”

“Alright.”

The window shuts with a click. He’s immediately turned and shoved against the window, the gun now aimed at his chest.

“What have I said,” Emet-Selch hisses.  _ “What have I said? _ The people of Eorzea are savages who will destroy all I’ve worked towards! Yet you conspire with the worst of all in my own Tower!”

He tries to find an excuse, but his thoughts are clouded with anger. “What of it, Ascian?”

Emet-Selch stares down. His expression shifts. “Oh.  _ Oh.  _ I see.”

A pause. He looks to the gun and braces himself for death. Instead, a shiver travels down his spine. He meets Emet-Selch’s eyes as a red sigil appears.

Absolute cold. Something clicks in his brain. Then darkness.

He doesn’t know where he wakes. He assumes he’s still in the Tower.

Awareness arrives with coughing and dim lighting. His back aches and he’ll never find out why. He has no idea what time it is or how much time has passed.

He doesn’t feel rested, only recalls absolute terror. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts; instead of thinking of the past he needs to focus on the present.

A round dais makes up the flooring, but it’s too dark to make out what lies over the edge. In the center is a tall Allagan contraption or console. Faintly glowing crystal juts out of it and crimson nodes are attached at hyur height. After confirming he’s alone he casts a small flame, balances as far over the edge of the dais as he can with his tail stretched out behind him, and makes out large Allagan gears on the walls. They’re still.

There’s a walkway lined with tiny crystals leading to a closed door. He can’t find a lever or button to open it, but there must be some way…

...But there’s no time as he hears his enemy’s arrival. He whirls around and hurls the fire, and cursing tells him he’s hit his target.

“Where did you learn  _ that?” _ Emet-Selch asks as he pats out the flame. “No, don’t answer, I know: the Warrior of Light.”

“After we deduced you lied about my ability to use magic, yes,” he snaps.

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell you the full truth.”

“You said-”

“I couldn’t teach you? I was busy.”

“-And that I have only a fraction of your power.”

“‘Tis true.” Emet-Selch shrugs. The act has him rise to his full height, and he’s reminded just how tall he really is. “I am an Ascian. My power surpasses even the strongest mortal’s.”

“You may have not lied, but you never told the truth once,” he says. “You said Eorzea is full of savages, that you were a sorcerer instead of an Ascian, that you want to save the world. But I know nothing you consider ‘saving’ will truly save Eorzea.”

“You don’t know the first thing about our plans,” he sneers. “Did the Warrior tell you of the corruption within the ranks of the very people they want to  _ save? _ How for every comrade they rescue they cut down a traitor? The world as it stands today is weak. I did not lie.”

“‘As it stands today’-? Then… you wish to turn back the hands of time to an era past, when you believe the world was better.”

“Or we can use magic to raise today’s mortals to their previous glory. I am not picky. It would be easier if my chosen scholar was  _ better at researching what I’ve given him.” _

Chosen scholar.

“I wasn’t found half dead, was I?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. “I had my memories before you found me.”

Emet-Selch says nothing. It’s an answer in itself. Now he just has to think about why  _ he _ was chosen… but that, too, is already answered, isn’t it? He just doesn’t want to admit it.

“I was wondering how much you were told,” Emet-Selch finally says. “I took a gander at the journal the Warrior mentioned, but I wonder if you  _ were _ the right mortal for the job if you cannot solve even this easy mystery.”

“I was a historian,” he says, bracing himself “I… used to study Allagan history at the Isle of Val before I lost my memories. You attacked my home, killed my friends, and stole my memories.”

“Good, good. And…?”

He puts a hand to his cheek. “I have the royal Allagan eye. You need someone capable of controlling the Tower, so I was chosen. However, I do not possess enough royal blood to control it. Your plan has already… failed.”

He trails off as Emet-Selch hotels up two glass vials. “That will be remedied. Any other concerns?”

“How does controlling Syrcus Tower grant you the ability to wield time and space?”

Emet-Selch gestures to the contraption. “This will see to that. This, and your binding to the Tower. Your notes would also assist, but as they were useless, well…”

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

“You can’t control the Tower if you’re dead. Besides, I don’t  _ need _ your cooperation. It’s just easier.”

Oh gods.

He backs up until he’s an ilm from the door. He has few options, though if he wants to keep Eorzea safe there’s only one.

But does he want to follow through? He doesn’t remember his own life, the name  _ Raha _ both familiar and alien. He doesn’t know Eorzea or its people.

Because the only way to stop Emet-Selch is to sacrifice himself. Some people couldn’t do it for a land they don’t know.

Not him.

He thinks of Krile, who called him his dearest friend. Of both her fondness and exasperation. Of the Warrior and their stories. Of how they can never switch jobs easily and their insistence on saving everyone. Of them teaching him their magic. Of the Warrior’s friends and the selflessness of the Scions. If Eorzea is half as kind as the small snapshot he’s gotten, it’s worth saving.

“May I at least see what’s in there before you force me?” he asks.

“You may.” And just like that, he holds the one labeled  _ U. _ “Know even if you ‘accidently’ drop it we will still find use in it.”

He studies it. There’s definitely blood inside. He doesn’t want to know how it was procured. Giving a silent apology to  _ U _ , he throws it on the ground with as much force as he can, shattering it.

“What did I  _ just _ say-”

He drops to one knee while lifting a hand in the air, casting the strongest and brightest cure he can. He just needs to blind Emet-Selch for a few seconds so he can lift up a bloody, jagged glass shard with his other hand.

He wishes he regained his memories. He wishes he could apologize to the Warrior. But he’s out of time, so he lifts the glass shard and -

His arm is stuck ilms away from his neck. He yanks on it and finds a pressure around his wrist, a tendril squeezing until he drops the glass shard.

“As I said,” Emet-Selch says coldly, “you can’t control the Tower if you’re dead. I suppose we can begin the process if you are impatient, but - ah, the Warrior has arrived. We’ll just do the first half.”

The shiver returns, and with it his horror. There must be some way to fight it, he thinks at the sound of a snap, about to voice his protest -

The Warrior arrives in plate armor, sword unsheathed and shield protecting their front.

That’s fine. Even the strongest armor breaks eventually.

They lob their shield at the Tower’s window. When they don’t open - or crack, a testament to Allagan architecture, they reluctantly switch to traditional dragoon mail. 

Still he waits. They do, too, for a full minute. At one point they cup their hands around their mouth, hesitate, then drop their arms. “I never asked him what he wanted to be called,” they mutter. Finally, they take up their polearm and bag and leap through the window.

“Hello?” they call out in the kitchen. “Anyone home? Scholar? Ascian? Anyone?”

No response. They adjust their visor to cover their face and grip their weapon. They creep over to the bedroom slowly, one step at a time, and round the corner -

\- And bump into him.

“There you are!” They drop their weapon to avoid whacking him. “You scared me.”

“My apologies, my friend,” he says with a smile. Today his bangs hide his left eye. “I was reading and didn’t hear your arrival.”

“You also scared me, shooing me away yesterday. Mind explaining?”

“Ah… Emet-Selch was due to return at any moment and I didn’t want you here at the same time,” he says, shrugging. “Luckily, his visit passed without incident.”

The Warrior accepts this and returns to the kitchen after picking up their weapon. They rummage through cupboards as though it’s theirs, pull out bread, and cut themselves a slice. They immediately wrinkle their nose.

“I can’t believe you eat that,” they say, gagging. “Though you did study with Sharlayans.”

He hums, unsure how to respond, and they give him a look.

“You… did read the journal, right?”

“Of course. It was… illuminating.”

“Then you know.” They sit at the table, polearm leaning against it. “You’re smart enough to make the connections about G’raha Tia.”

“That I’m him? Yes.” He rubs at his forehead, careful not to move his hair. “I was a historian who studied Allag at the Isle of Val. Emet-Selch took my memories.”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know. I’m just glad you believe me. You seemed pretty against it when I told you of your identity.”

Had they now. “I don’t recall having such a reaction,” he says, pouting exaggeratedly.

“Hmm. Very well, I’ll let you have it.” They frown. “Have you thought more about my offer?”

He can’t say he has.

“I thought you’d have an answer by now. I did bring something to change your mind, just in case. I don’t suppose you’d like to talk to Krile?”

“Yes, of course! Mayhap she can jog my memories.”

They lean below the table so their back is half to him, presumably to grab a linkpearl. This is his chance. He raises a hand above the table to hide the dark energy amassing in his palm, magic he should not have -

\- And then they sit up with a handful of white auracite.

“Drop the act,” they hiss. “I know who you are, Emet-Selch.”

He’s caught red - void - handed, and immediately cancels the spell at the sight of auracite. He knows what happened to Nabralies.

“How did you know?” Emet-Selch asks. “Was there ever an offer?”

“There was. But he acted too strange yesterday to be suspicious, and I read the journal, too. Nowhere in it does it state ‘Raha’s’ full name, and I never told him his identity.”

With the auracite in one hand and polearm in the other, he’s seconds away from death. Still, he can’t resist one more jab.

“He was still himself when you met yesterday,” he says. “This happens to be a more… recent change.” They narrow their eyes and lift the auracite higher. “No, no, think before you hurl that at me. If you do, you’ll find your friend’s body and soul are destroyed alongside me. Hydaelyn can’t help you this time.”

“I know.”

“Then why threaten me so?” Emet-Selch spreads out his arms, a common gesture for him, and the Warrior immediately looks disgusted. He displays his sigil for good measure. “There is no chance of winning. Even if you trap me within, it will take your entire life force to destroy me. Alternatively, if you slay me to save your own skin, your friend will still die and I live to fight another day.”

They’re silent. He scoffs.

“Did you come here with a plan, hero?” It’s then he sees the arm holding the auracite shaking slightly. “Are you feeling alright? Injured?”

“Angry,” they growl, “beyond belief. You Ascians never cease to anger. All of you act as though you’re better than us, but Lahabrea and Nabralies still fell. It took you years to find one scholar.”

“Lahabrea yet lives. It’s too soon to count your chocobos.”

Their growl turns into a roar as they hurl the polearm. He ducks, and stands to see them dressed as a paladin and them to see his - oh.

“Your eye,” the Warrior whispers. “It’s red.”

He smooths the bangs back. “I’d hoped to surprise you,” he complains. “Yes, this body now has enough royal blood to control the Tower. Isn’t it ironic? The boy who believed he was powerless now has the strength to defeat even the mightiest armies, but he is not awake to know it.”

“You’re a monster,” they spit. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. “Hey, Raha, do you hear me? Raha!”

“What part of possession do you not understand?”

They leap onto the table and charge him, sword raised. They can’t possibly have him believe they mean to cut him down in this body. He rolls his eyes and summons a portal between them, and they run straight into the Rift.

He’s not heartless. He opens an exit, following them as they stumble into the central chamber of Syrcus Tower. The Allagan machine is on, gears rotating, and because it’s on it’s bright enough to illuminate the endless chasm below the dais. He snaps, and the dry glass shards disappear along with the portal.

The Warrior charges again, straight through his magic. They’re fast and strong, no less than expected, but he sends a dark eruption snaking towards them too quick to dodge. The resulting explosion knocks them off their feet. When the smoke clears, they stand several yalms away, knives drawn.

“Will you sit still?” he asks, attempting to capture them, dark orbs appearing where they stand. They miss, of course. It’s infuriating. “You only delay the inevitable.”

They make several fast hand gestures, bring their hands to their lips, and blow out a plume of fire. He dispels it with a flick of his fingers.

“Oh, come now. Is that truly the-”

The unfurling of wings has Emet-Selch turning to see an enormous phoenix as fire rains down. He throws up a shield around him and the machine he’s spent too much time building. It’s  _ almost _ a struggle, and lasts a full minute. There’s no doubt the Warrior is the strongest mortal alive.

That being said…

He winds streams of darkness so the Warrior is trapped. Then he sends his strongest spell straight at them. If  _ this _ doesn’t do it-

It’s progress. As their own shield flickers and disappears, he sees their robes are tattered and they breathe heavily on one knee. His eyes widen at the scarred arm revealed by the damage. “Well, well. You live on borrowed time, Warrior. Is that why you fight so hard?”

“Shut up.” A flash of light, and they hide the scar behind armor and an enormous axe.

“But this opens the door to new possibilities. With your death all but assured, I need only wait it out.”

“Funny,” they say, “I was planning the same.”

He has little time to consider their meaning before the battle resumes. They impressively last more than a few minutes in their warrior garb, and he uses his strongest spells to fight them back. Finally, they rush him again. It’s the same boring tactic, and he means to swat them away. All he has to do is think of the spell, flick his arm (or snap if feeling dramatic), and his magic should do the rest.

He thinks of the spell. He snaps. And then he’s forced to have this body’s arm bear the brunt of the blow as the spell never comes.

“What-” he starts. They swing and he almost doesn’t step back in time. He wills magic to heal the wound, but it too never appears. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing. You forget you’re limited by the body you possess. He may have a lot of aether for a mortal, but not enough to carelessly cast magic as you do.”

They’re right, damn them. If Emet-Selch taught him a single spell… He curses an ancient curse he’s not said for centuries as he grips his bleeding arm. It’s a miscalculation he doesn’t often make, and yet he finds himself limited by his own hubris.

There isn’t enough magic within him to cast another shadow stream. He decides to abandon the body; even if he wakes he won’t know what to do, limited as he is. As though he’s shed a coat, he swaps out his body for his old one.

It takes a while to adjust, as unused to boddy hopping he is, but now he has magic. Even better, the Warrior kneels by the old body to shake his shoulder.

“Wake up!” they shout, back to him. They look around - do they mean to swap jobs to heal him? Bind Emet-Selch in auracite? Both their bag and auracite lie on the other side of the room, by the Allagan machine.

It’s a costly mistake. Emet-Selch doesn’t usually allow himself to feel giddy at destroying Hydaelyn’s champions, but he smirks anyway.

Then he devours the light in a single spell, and aims all his power at the two.

It’s dark.

He wakes up - and he can’t think the usual thoughts, can’t think at all, because his arm bleeds and the Warrior stands before him as their axe clatters to the ground. Their knees buckle.

“Warrior!”

They don’t respond. They’re on their knees now, then their side, and he rolls them over to see their body covered in open wounds. He cast the only healing spell he knows. It fizzles, and he stares at his hands, aghast.

“I see I was correct about your potential after all.”

Emet-Selch walks up. He’s so tall that he can’t see the glowing contraption behind him, only what lies beneath it. He remembers the console glowing brighter, remembers the gears turning. It wasn’t him who interacted with it, but it was his hands all the same. What else did Emet-Selch do in his body?

“I must remind you how hopeless your situation is,” Emet-Selch says. “It’s for this reason that I present you with two options.”

“Options?”

“Option one!” Emet-Selch holds up a finger. “You stay with the Warrior. No matter. I end their life and trap you here until it’s time.”

He waits. He knows the second can’t be any better.

“Option two! You understand the futility in fighting. I graciously forget all the trouble you caused, and we return to above so I can fill you in on your binding to the Tower.”

“And we leave the Warrior to die.”

“Precisely.”

He can’t imagine Emet-Selch lowering himself for anyone, but that’s exactly what he does: he crouches down and places a hand on the Warrior’s scar.

“Do you know where this is?” he asks quietly. “This is why you would have never had a happy ending. You were always doomed for tragedy.”

He should slap his hand away. Instead, he watches numbly.

“This,” Emet-Selch says, for once deathly serious, “is what you may know as Flood of Light.”

_ “Does this look like the work of a man who is trying to save Eorzea? Another of his minions did this to me.” _

_ “I want to save everyone. I don’t know how much time I have left on this star, so I want to do as much good as I can.” _

_ “It won’t go away. Don’t worry yourself over it.” _

_ “I… I think she knows someone afflicted.” _

“It is a disease which destroys your aether,” Emet-Selch continues. “It’s impossible to outrun or survive, the perfect weapon against my Echo-possessing enemies.”

“You did this,” he says. “Fix it.”

“That’s impossible.”

The punch somes so fast he doesn’t register it until Emet-Selch spits out blood, a hand on his cheek. “You - you-!”

“Me,” Emet-Selch agrees, standing. “Me. Yes, ‘twas I who approved of its creation, just as I did with Black Rose.”

“And you think I’d work for you?” How could he? He was ready to end his own life before, but now that he knows there’s no storybook ending - that there is no way he leaves this Tower -

Then what’s the point?

“Do you understand now? The feeling of losing friends and family you will never get back. The desire to do anything to save them. The crushing despair of knowing nothing is possible. Nothing, save preventing it all.”

He does. The Warrior’s death means his continued imprisonment and the world’s end. He’ll never meet their comrades or adventure to where they’ve traveled, never experience life as they have. Without the Warrior, he has nothing, not even a simple cure.

...Or does he?

Even now, at his lowest point, the hope refuses to die. It reminds him how the Warrior spoke of helping him until he was it to stand on his own two feet. He didn’t think that day was today. He has no other choice.

Even if he miraculously defeats Emet-Selch, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but the hope won’t die. He won’t allow it to. “If I offer my compliance, I ask you to tell me all you know about halting Flood of Light, even temporarily.”

“How many times must you make me repeat it? It’s impossible. Unfeasible. Hopeless.”

“Temporarily,” he insists.

“I could _ temporarily _ inhabit your body and do everything myself. Then I don’t have to strike a deal at all.”

He glances to the Allagan pillar, just out of reach. “What, pray tell, would you have me do?”

“You’ll use the console to open a portal as a test run. It can lead anywhere the first time, but eventually you’ll take us back in time. With the prevention of one world’s demise we may ensure the Calamities never come to pass. That seems agreeable enough.”

So the console could control the entire Tower. “And can I control it now?”

“If you attempt to, you’ll find yourself flummoxed. I’ll take it as a sign of further rebellion and any deals will be nulled. Besides, no mortal can hope to understand its full potential without the binding. Don’t worry. It isn’t  _ too _ painful.”

He knows enough about Allag to know what  _ binding  _ means, and he doesn’t want it to matter what the Tower says. Still it beckons him closer to the console, has him hover a hand over the crystal. He pauses.

“Tell me how to stop Flood of Light.”

“I have repeated myself enough,” the Ascian warns. “Ask again and-”

It’s the same strategy as before, but then he’s learned everything he knows from the Warrior. In one fluid motion he drops down, grabs the white auracite, and holds it aloft in the air.

Emet-Selch’s eyes widen. “Is that-”

He means to hold him long enough to wake the Warrior and have them finish it. They know what to do. What he expects to see is a light surround Emet-Selch and for him to disappear inside with nary a whisper, almost too easily.

What he doesn’t expect to see is the auracite glow purple. It won’t hold him long enough to wake the Warrior, and he doesn’t know how to destroy it properly.

...The Tower. The Tower knows. He cradles the shaking auracite in his left arm as he turns back to the console, forcing his aether to keep Emet-Selch trapped inside. It’s difficult, as he has almost no magic, but he thinks about the Warrior’s lesson in stopping magic and applies it.

There’s no time to learn how to bind himself properly. All he can do is place his right hand on the controls and give himself to the Tower and hope. “Please,” he whispers, recalling words from old Allagan texts - or his own memories - “let expanse contract, eon become instant -”

The console hums. Emet-Selch’s creation, intended to end this world, glows a bright blue. The auracite shakes angrily. Cold creeps up his right hand, stemming the sluggish blood from his wound. It’s pure crystal.

This must be the binding of the Tower. Will he fully crystallize? He forces his arm to stay, grits his teeth and remains still even as it engulfs his limb, winds up his shoulders and neck painfully. Mercifully, it slows there.

It’s horrifying how right it feels.

The auracite’s next pulse nearly tears it out of his hand. He grabs onto it with his new crystal hand. “There will be no escape today,” he says, then closes his eyes.

It’s possible the Tower has guided his every action, has had its designs on him from the start, because it shouldn’t be natural to use its power but it  _ is _ . It’s natural for the entire room to light up blue, visible through his eyelids. The blue fights against the straining void around the auracite until he hears a crack. He opens his eyes. A jagged line runs through the auracite.

Another line appears. At the same time, the crystal creeps further up his neck. Then another. It’s covered in cracks, void seeping through only to be swallowed by crystal. Finally, it splits in two and blue mist dissipates into the air, sparkling. He touches a hand to his face and feels the crystal halt its growth there. It feels like an open wound.

Is that it?

The Tower hums, brightly lit. The gears rotate a full circle before slowing. If the auracite didn’t kill Emet-Selch, he realizes, the Tower did, and though he doesn’t know how temporary his death is he knows it will take time for him to regain power. An Ascian’s death should not be quiet, but he knows Emet-Selch would have the last word if he wished. The shock must have rendered him speechless… or mayhap his last words were meant for the Warrior and not his prisoner.

He doesn’t spare what little remains of the auracite a single glance as he returns to the Warrior’s side, whispering their title. No answer. Did Flood of Light…?

With the Tower’s assistance, he heals their wounds. The scar remains.

He waits.

“...Where’s Emet-Selch?”

His eyes widen. The Warrior leans up on their elbows, gaining in strength in both body and voice.

“Defeated,” he says, because Emet-Selch’s power must return eventually. “It’s over.”

“What do you mean?” They squint at him, and horror dawns on their face. “Your arm!”

“I merged with the Tower. ‘Twas the only way to defeat him.”

“You - but then you can’t -”

He sits down fully. They struggle to form words.

“There really wasn't another way?”

“No.”

Then they grin. “I’m proud of you. You did what it took three of us to do and survived.”

_ “Why?” _ he explodes. “I couldn’t do it with my own magic, I’m trapped in the Tower for eternity, and you -” He cuts himself off because he can’t finish without his hope dwindling.

“We can break the Tower’s binding. I don’t know how, but if we recover your memories we might find a clue in your old research.”

It’s too much. He has to kill it. “But you’ll die!” he shouts. They reel back. “I know of Flood of Light. You won’t live long enough to see me free of the Tower.”

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my days helping you.”

“Why?” He doesn’t know why thoughts of the Warrior’s death sends a twinge down his back. “There’s an entire world to see before you die. Do not waste yourself on an amnesiac.”

“How many different ways must I say it? It’s who I am and what I do. I can’t rest until I’ve saved everyone. Regardless of that, it’s  _ you _ . You may not be in distress -” he begs to differ - “but I’m willing to save you. Because…”

“Yes?”

They smile again. “Because I think you can save me, too.”

What are they  _ talking _ about?

This isn’t about Flood of Light and the Tower anymore, is it?

The harder he thinks the more his back hurts and the more the crystal feels normal. He’s missing something.  _ Think _ . What is he missing?

“Think of Black Rose,” they say gently. “This isn’t the only death I’ve faced.”

What? If they were infected by Black Rose they would be dead. The only way to not die from it is to never encounter it, to prevent their meeting.

“Why do you think you studied Alexander and Omega?”

To assist Emet-Selch. It’s all he’s known to do. It’s the Warrior who taught him otherwise.

“No, I’ve been trying to make you remember. I’m the reason you used their abilities in the first place.”

He’s never used Alexander or Omega. He’s never used magic at all until now-

“That isn’t true,” they say, knowing his mind because he hasn’t spoken a word. “Think. What is Flood of Light?”

The catastrophic event which nearly destroyed the First -

The Empire’s newest weapon -

His mind fractures at the realization of having two different answers.

It’s happened from the start. Every time he wakes up he has the strangest thoughts. His back  _ hurts _ , hurts more than a simple ache, and it’s only just now that he knows why.

“What’s going on?” he begs, cradling his hands in front of him. “Who am I?”

“You have to remember. You can’t move on until you do.”

“What am I moving on from?”

He thinks of their adventures, and thinks he may have never been able to go on them from the start, a false hope rather than a true one. He’s had his adventures. He’d like more but knows it isn’t possible because he has to die, but he doesn’t remember why or what he’s dying for.

Who he’s dying for.

“No one,” they snap. “You have to live. Did I inspire you to die, Raha? You must know I never wanted lives sacrificed for me.”

They never call him Raha in real life.

This is why he hid his identity. If they knew him, they’d prevent his death. Panic surges within him. The plan’s fallen to pieces.

The Warrior stands to meet him. When did he stand? “Yes, you failed, but not for that reason. Are you that eager to forget? How will you save me if you don’t remember?”

“I -” He focuses on that. Save the Warrior. He has to save the Warrior. He braces one hand on his back to stem the pain and looks down at his right hand.

That’s what triggers it.

He remembers a million instances of staring at the crystal binding him to his destiny and the long life he’s led on two shards. He chose to merge himself because it was the only way to live long enough to save the Warrior from Black Rose. That was why he and the Ironworks harnessed the power of two entities. He was going to stop it from ever happening.

But he was too late. He’s out of time.

“It’s not too late.”

“I failed. I was shot.”

The Warrior grips him by their shoulders. “Raha,” they say, “it’s not. You must think of a new plan, one where you don’t die. What’s kept you going these last hundred years?”

The Crystarium. Lyna. The Warrior, and the promise of an end.

Their eyes gleam, but he can’t tell if it’s from satisfaction or sadness. “Keep that in your memories, Raha. There’s an end, but it’s one where we’re both alive. Got it?”

He thinks of this new challenge they present to him. What will they do with the excess light? He can’t tear his eyes away from the scar. All that light trapped in one body, slowly sapping at their aether… not even an Ascian could suffer it.

“There we go,” they say. He’s guessed right. “That will be my job. I just need you to keep me alive long enough to strike Emet-Selch.”

His sword and shield won’t hold long enough to protect them, and he can’t take the light away because then they can’t use it. Also, he’ll die. But if he summons more warriors to fight alongside them, they can protect the Warrior far better than just him.

“Now you have your plan,” they say, snapping. He flinches. “Sorry, sorry, just wanted to try it.”

“You should have done that before he possessed me with one,” he grumbles.

They snap again. He goes to swat their hand but pauses before he breaks a bone with his crystal arm. Then he remembers none of this is real and doesn’t matter anyway, and swats it.

“What is this?” he asks. “To say this entire affair is nothing but a dream is tasteless. There must be more to it than that.”

They frown. “I can’t say. Not because I’m a figment of your imagination, but if you want to find meaning in it I won’t stop you.”

Well, alright. He swallows his cowardness as he leans forward. If this is a dream, then…

No, no, there’s no time for that. He stops. The Warrior just looks amused.

“Go save the world so you can be with the real version of me,” they say, giving him a light shove. “Go on.”

The Crystal Exarch recovers from the stumble. He thinks, then snaps his own fingers. A mirror appears to the side. Has he had this power the entire time? How foolish to not realize it sooner. Either way, he turns to see himself from years and years ago. When he fishes hard enough, the crystal is gone.

The Exarch commits the image to memory. He’ll never look like this again. He ignores the Warrior’s knowing expression as the crystal returns and the mirror vanishes.

“Are you ready?” they ask. “You’re about to return to a world of pain.”

“I return to a world in which the Warrior might yet live,” he refutes, and finds the hope has returned. He allows it. He’d much rather live in a world where they survive.

“That’s the spirit.”

He faces the Warrior, takes a long look at their dented armor, the pale scar.

“I’ll make amends for my mistakes,” he declares, “so we both live. It is the least I can do.”

The Warrior shakes their head as the fairy tale ends. He’d have liked to see Mor Dhona one last time, but seeing them is enough for now. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He wakes in Amaurot.

The Exarch wakes up, tries to push himself up on unsteady arms and falls just as quickly. Pain from his back travels through his entire body. He knows not what time it is, having been unconscious far too long to tell, and the Tempest is terrible for telling time anyhow. He’s never known much of this land. He hadn’t thought to study it with all the other threats he’s busied himself with for a hundred years.

The dream comes back slowly. He grimaces, recalling the entirety of it with embarrassing clarity. If not for its inevitable ending he might prefer it. Still… for now, he pushes it out of his mind.

He applies a healing spell to his back so he can sit up. He looks around. He’s alone.

The Exarch finds his staff and begins to walk. He has a hero to save, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s an alternate version where this is just a fairy tale and flood of light does not exist but I like this one better. Marginally 
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can contact me at j-fiteclub on tumblr


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